by Ed Teja
I nodded.
"Then what we are doing is working with Simon, who works for the bad guys, to find what happened to the money. Their money. Money we've never seen, and have no idea where it came from—if it even exists."
"We are trying to bring the killer to justice."
He smiled. "Junior, making the giant leap of faith that Simon is telling us something like the truth, if the woman you saw took the money and Simon finds her with it, she will end up dead and the money goes back to the mob. I'm not sure that is justice. If Simon is lying, or wrong, then someone set her up for taking the money. Still, Simon or one of the other mob guys will probably kill her trying to find out where she put the money. That is definitely not justice. And lastly, it's unlikely that the killer was the wife, who was in Margarita, and it wasn't you, me or James, and that pretty much leaves bad guys."
"What about Simon?"
"Seems like Simon picked his side. Whether or not you like him, he is on the side of evil. Even if he wasn't, he hasn't asked for your help."
Suddenly I felt tired. "I suppose," I said.
"While you are supposing, you might want to suppose that if you keep playing detective it is going to do nothing but put us in the middle of this thing, which is not a good or healthy place to be. As much as I enjoy our heroics from time to time, I need to know that there is a good guy or gal that will benefit from me taking the trouble."
"Don't you want to know who killed Walker?"
"Sure I do. In an idle curiosity sort of way. But I want to be in some sleazy waterfront bar in Grenada or somewhere, pick up a newspaper and read that so and so was convicted of the killing."
"Leave it to the locals?"
"Crimes should be punished and all that, but this isn't our country and the cops have already decided they know who did it. We are just interfering, and, as far as I can see, Simon is the only real beneficiary of that." He ordered us another drink. "Life is not a fair and even thing; it often goes out of balance for a while. Right now, it's time to collect the paperwork Jimmy wanted, board our trusty steed, and head off to new adventures."
I let out a long, slow breath. Bill was right that I had let myself get caught up in the whole situation, take ownership of it. Simon had played me in that way. None of it was my concern.
"Fine," I said. "I'll see Simon tomorrow. We can call James and tell him we are wrapping things up."
Bill smiled happily at my sudden burst of common sense.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Seeking Simon
The next afternoon I walked over to Simon's favorite bar. Rare clouds darkened the morning and held in the heat and humidity. The bar was empty.
Raul was cleaning glasses as if he expected a rush at any moment. Hell, maybe he did.
When he saw me, he shook his head. "He hasn't been in today," he said. He seemed to realize the enormity of that comment for the first time and added: "Must be sick.
For some strange reason, I couldn't imagine Simon being sick. Hungover or distracted, sure, but never in bed with the flu or anything mundane like that.
As I toyed with that thought, I began to think that Bill was right, and he had managed to inject me with some kind of romantic hero image of who he really was.
It also occurred to me that if Bill was right, Simon might be out hunting his prey. If he truly thought the woman had the money, he would likely be tracking her. I couldn't imagine how he would find her, but if he did, I had no doubt that he would do whatever it took to convince her to tell him where the money was hidden.
I was less sure about what he would do next. If he got his hands on the money, would he return it, or take it for himself? He didn't seem to fear his employer and he certainly didn't like the life he was leading all that much, so maybe he would keep it. He liked his drinks and the ladies, but he didn't like being employed.
Suddenly I heard Bill's voice in my head asking, "If he would keep the money once he got his hands on it, how do you know he doesn't already have it?"
Of course, I didn't know. Raul gave me the telephone and I tried calling the number Simon had given me, but there was no answer.
Raul smiled at me as I hung up. "He never answers his phone," Raul said. "He is afraid it will be a woman he has gotten tired of, and he tires of them quickly."
I'd never been to his apartment, but I knew where it was. He'd mentioned the name of the hotel he lived in. I knew it wasn't far away. "Then I guess I'll drop by his place and say hello," I told Raul. Raul didn't care.
# # #
Simon lived in what had once been an elegant hotel. Now it was part hot-sheet hotel and part home to a few long-term residents who couldn't afford better.
An unshaven old man in a ragged tee-shirt sat at the desk. He was middle-aged, out of shape, and bored.
For a few Bolivars, he acknowledged that the British gringo lived there and told me that he hadn't seen him in days and no, he wasn't worried. Simon paid by the month and in advance.
He shrugged. "People who come here who pay in advance can do what they wish. It is no worry to not see a guest for many days, Señor. Not until the bill is due."
I figured it wasn't a huge concern. Not in that place. Of course, that would be one of Simon's main criteria for hotel selection, I was sure.
He wanted to be where no one cared what he was up to or when he came or went. And he had chosen well. This clerk wouldn't be the type to worry if he heard gunshots coming from the room, as long as the blood didn't seep into the hallway.
I went up the stairs to his room. I glanced back, but the desk clerk didn't care or even seem to notice which way I went. The door to his room was locked and no one responded to my knock. Down the hallway I saw an open door; a maid's cart, covered with stained but clean linens stuck out into the hall.
I'm not a cat burglar, and I don't know much about locks, so I tried a direct approach. I walked down to the open door and called out to the maid who turned out to be a fairly attractive woman in her thirties.
She sat on the unmade bed in one of the rooms, smoking a cigarette and watching a game show on the television. A benefit of the job, no doubt. I showed her a relatively large banknote. Her eyes flared with indignation and she shook her head vigorously.
"I'm a maid," she said, "not a whore."
I smiled. "This wouldn't be for love. Just for a favor."
Her insulted glare turned curious. "What kind of favor?"
"A favor that would involve accidentally leaving open the door to a room—the room of a friend of mine."
She considered it. Then she stood. "Do you know the number of your friend's room?" I told her. "I haven't seen him for a couple of days," she told me for free.
"I know. He is missing and his friends and business associates are worried. I was hoping that you would allow me in his room. Perhaps I can find something that might tell me where he is, where he has gone."
She looked me over thoroughly, deciding, then nodded. "He is a nice man. No problems with the policía I hope?"
"I don't think so. I think he is just hiding from a jealous husband."
Her smile told me that this was an idea she could understand. "Bueno."
"If that is what it is, then I need to tell him the husband has gone to Europe for a few weeks." She smiled and I figured Simon owed me big time for bolstering his reputation.
She took the banknote from my hand with a firm grip, pocketed it, and then unlocked the room, swinging the door open. "Lock it when you leave," she told me sternly.
I looked at the door and saw that it had one of the simple locks that lets you turn the inside knob and the door locks when you close it. Very handy for locking yourself out, as I've found over the years. When I nodded, she gave me a smile and went back down the hall to her television program.
Simon's room was Spartan. It had a bed, a dresser, and a closet. Everything he had told me pointed to the fact that he'd been living there for a while now, yet there were no clear s
igns that he was settled in for the duration.
But a traveler, even one who isn't a detective, knows how to read the signs. For instance, someone who is constantly on the move doesn't usually bother to unpack all his clothes, and Simon had. I found two battered suitcases on the top shelf of the closet. I was amused to see that he had a number of those same brown suits, more or less identical, even down to the wear.
Obviously, he took his image seriously and worked diligently at developing his anonymity. I wondered what the women he brought here thought of his wardrobe. Maybe they didn't notice.
I searched the desk and came up empty. Well, it held a fair amount of miscellaneous stuff—a few coins, paperclips and matchbooks—but it was devoid of phone numbers, names, and mysterious notes of any kind.
I even looked for a notepad where he could have written a note that I, dedicated reader of cheap mysteries that I was, could use to save the day by sprinkling with graphite to make the impression of the message made on the page underneath legible.
Thus, I would find the address where he was held captive by, well, by whoever held him captive, if indeed he was being held captive at all and not simply off on a binge. I had a feeling that finding the money would take priority over partying.
I had no better luck in the closet. The suitcases were completely empty, so I started checking his clothing. I went carefully through his suit pockets, but it appeared that he didn't even leave lint in them.
Old spy habits die hard, I guess. I decided to be thorough in case he made a mistake. But Simon had been careful. I realized there was nothing there, or if there was, I'd never find it. I hadn't been trained to find things and Simon had been trained to hide them.
Once I abandoned the search of his closet and gave a perfunctory look under the bed, it seemed that I had looked everywhere there was to look.
When I closed the door I saw it. Stuck to the back of the door, easily seen when the door was closed, hung a piece of yellow notebook paper. A green pushpin held it in place. Excitedly I removed it and read the letters someone had scrawled on it in with a felt tip pen. "FINCO 234," it said.
I sat down on the bed to think, to the accompaniment of bedspring squeaks. Off the top of my head, the term FINCO meant nothing to me.
I did remember that Finca was the Spanish word for an estate or farm, but the handwriting was clear and all in capitals, so there was no doubt about the last letter. I would check with Consuela and probably a dictionary or two to see if this was a slang word. I doubted it. The number made it even more confusing. A combination?
Of course, I didn't even know if this scrap of yellow paper had anything to do with Simon's disappearance. I hoped it did. A feeling in my bones told me that it did. But even if I could manage to figure out what it meant it wouldn't necessarily be enough information to lead me to him. Still, for the moment, it was the only clue in town.
I put the paper in my pocket, went out of the room, locking the door as I left. For all the good it would do.
# # #
"What is the first thing we should do today?" Consuela asked.
"I need to find out what this means," I told her, showing the note I had found in Simon's room.
She shook her head slowly. "Finco? Nothing. It means nothing to me. Is it supposed to be a Spanish word?"
I shrugged. I hate it when I shrug. It looks stupid. "Whatever language it is supposed to be, can you think of any connection it might have with Walker or the office? Maybe initials of something? A shipment maybe?"
She scowled, considering it almost seriously. "No. Nada. Nothing."
I shook my head. "How can you be so sure without checking the files?"
She laughed. "With nothing else to do in this office, and to make myself believe I am earning my money, I just re-filed all the paperwork. There are few things that begin with 'F' at all, and that odd word would have seemed interesting to me. No, there is nothing."
Her confidence was hard to refute. "I do have one idea," I told her.
"Me also. Mine is to make coffee."
Coffee sounded as good as any idea I might have, so while Consuela did her magic with the coffee machine, I grabbed the telephone directory and began flipping pages.
In Venezuela, a phone book is more of an archival document than a book of current phone numbers. The book doesn't get updated either very often or very well. Even though accuracy appears to be more accidental than the goal, the book can sometimes be useful.
When you are looking for information on a major company you can usually at least find out if they have any offices and which cities, besides Caracas, they have (or had) offices in. Since I wasn't looking for details, I hoped I could learn that Finco was what I guessed it might be.
It took just a few minutes to prove my clever hunch wrong. I had thought it might be an insurance company. Federal Insurance Co would become Finco rather easily, and it had the ring of a large company, possibly one based out of Brazil, with offices throughout South America. The laughable phone book trashed my fantasy.
The only Finco listed was a company that made things out of sheet metal—the Federal Industries Company. That was another rotten company name, as far as I was concerned. And unless this was where Simon intended to invest the stolen money, I couldn't make a connection.
I rummaged through Walker's cheap metal desk but couldn't find any reference to the company at all. Consuela was right and hadn't missed anything.
Despite my late breakfast, the smell of coffee brewing ignited my stomach in a litany of complaint. I was shocked to realize it was already noon. Time flies even if you aren't having fun, it would seem.
I left the office determined to find a decent lunch and to give Simon one more chance to appear in his favorite spot. In my bizarre collection of experience that constitutes my life, stubbornness has been known to prevail when more sophisticated ploys failed. Today, however, it was the same old song. Raul was there. Simon wasn't.
I drank a couple of beers and talked with Raul.
"Ever hear of FINCO?" I asked Raul, just taking a long shot.
He looked exasperated. "The word is finca," he said. "It means a ranch or estate."
"This is finco, not finca. The paper said FINCO 234."
"No idea," he said.
"And it isn't in the dictionary. I looked. I was hoping it might be local slang."
He shook his head. "Maybe some word the pescaderos use, but nothing common. But then the Spanish spoken in this country is getting worse by the day so maybe it is something new and terrible."
I agreed with him about the degeneration of the language and left to find an edible lunch in a more amiable atmosphere.
# # #
Puerto La Cruz, being a city of sunshine, has a fair number of open-air eateries. The street vendors fade away as the sun rises, to return in the cool of the evening, but there are many establishments that are open all day.
Señor Pollo (Mister Chicken) is a popular place that has tables and plastic chairs. They have decent roast chicken, papas fritas, and cafeteria service.
They don't sell any drinks except for water and the sickly-sweet bottled drinks Venezuelans seem to adore. I bought a bottled water to go with my meal. When the food was ready, I took a seat.
I was hungry and tucked into the chicken eagerly.
"Mind if I join you," a pleasant female voice asked in English. I heard a Germanic twist to the words. I looked up to see the mystery woman holding two bottles of beer. She put one on the table in front of me and sat down, taking a big drink of hers. Then she put her beer down on the table and looked at me.
"Tailing is thirsty work," she said.
She had a stern face. You wouldn't call her pretty, but she had a strange attractiveness about her.
"I suppose it is. Thirsty, I mean. Is that why you stopped in? Just to tell me?"
"No. I stopped in to say that Simon Riche is dead," she said. Her voice had that matter-of-fact quality to it that
people use when they say that the day is hot, but it made the hairs stand up on my neck.
"He's dead? Are you sure?"
She nodded. "Certain."
I raised an eyebrow and she nodded. "I am sure because I killed him."
That seemed to settle the matter.
"Are you telling me for a reason, beyond simple gloating? I could have gone all day without hearing that."
She frowned. "I am not gloating. I am telling you so you will stop looking for him and so I can find out what you are looking for."
"Finco," I said.
"What?" she asked.
"Finco. I assumed you searched Simon's room and saw the paper."
She thought for a moment, then smiled. "Yes, of course. Finco."
"That's correct." Her hesitation made me realize that she hadn't seen the paper.
After a moment she let out a breath. "If that was in his room, I have to admit I missed it. That would have confirmed what I expected, but I needed the rest."
"The rest?"
"The key."
I was getting more confused. "And you got the key?"
"Yes," she said. "Simon had it in his pocket." She said the words confidently, but she didn't look as certain. I had to wonder.
"I hope that those things gave you all that you wished for."
She grinned. "Yes. I must say that it was everything I'd hoped for. More, actually."
"And you had to kill him to get it?"
"I would have killed him anyway, of course."
"Of course," I said. "Actually, not of course. Why would you kill him?"
"Drink the beer before it gets warm," she said. When I took a long drink, she smiled. "I killed Simon Riche because he set me up. He made it look as if I took the money he stole. I decided that if I was going to be chased for the money, I would make sure I got it. I killed him to prevent him from killing me."
